


plans

by preromantics



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:24:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quickie prompt response ficlet. /<i>Nick does look immediately back at the road, because right, driving. Not dying, good plan. “Not my fault,” he says, calmly steering the car back into the appropriate lane as Harry laughs at him, “you’re being all — flexible. Over there. Maybe you’ve got plans to get me killed, Styles.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	plans

**Author's Note:**

> kaley asked you: prompt: harry/nick. a long roadtrip. :d
> 
> This was supposed to be for a three sentence meme, but I'm clearly not very good at rules. Banter though!

“If I stick my feet out the window, do you think when a car comes along I’ll get crushed?” Harry asks, not ten minutes into the countryside. He’s already in the process of lifting his knees up to his chest to angle himself toward the window when Nick glances over, and Nick jams his thumb onto the automatic window control for Harry’s side on his door to prevent Harry from being ridiculous.

Three hours into this road trip and Nick is starting to think he’s made a tactical error, is wondering if he should start condemning himself to a very long weekend. 

Harry jabs at the window button on his own door several times, looking comically frustrated, before he turns to narrow his eyes at Nick. They spend a good minute glaring at each other while pressing their respective window-down buttons before Harry gives up and crosses his arms over where his knees are all pressed up against his chest.

“You’re no fun at all,” Harry says. “This road trip was a horrible idea.”

“At least you know I’m not just driving you out to the country to murder you, seeing how I’m concerned for your well-being,” Nick counters. Harry looks at him blankly, a little curl to the side of his mouth that Nick can’t help but stare at, his brain shouting at him about how fond it makes Harry look, fond of  _Nick,_ but Nick’s brain is a traitor so he focuses elsewhere, namely Harry’s long legs and how his torso is twisted and his legs are propped up weirdly and how he looks comfortable and flexible —

“I don’t believe you,” Harry says, jerking his head to the side. “You’re not even watching the road. You’re definitely going to serial murder me.”

Nick does look immediately back at the road, because right, driving. Not dying, good plan. “Not my fault,” he says, calmly steering the car back into the appropriate lane as Harry laughs at him, “you’re being all — flexible. Over there. Maybe you’ve got plans to get  _me_  killed, Styles.”

Harry hums low in his throat at the tail end of a laugh. “I’ve got plans,” he says slowly, nothing else, and Nick rolls his shoulders back into his seat with the weight of the silence that follows.

Nick glances back over at him (after warily eyeing a flock of sheep behind a fence to the side and determining they probably aren’t going to charge in the next few seconds), gets caught back at the little curve to the side of Harry’s mouth where he’s looking out the window, eyes bright. “I hope so,” Nick says, belated and a bit more honest than he means it to be.

Nick’s shit at plans and follow-through, and Harry frequently makes everything sort of muddled in his brain, so he’s used up his plan-making on this surprise country road trip. Something traitorous and hopeful in his gut tells him maybe Harry’s plan might actually take them somewhere not just scenic. 

“This would be so much better if you’d let me hang my feet out the window,” Harry says, twisting in his seat. “Why’d you rent this small thing?”

“You’re not a dog, you don’t need to hang out the window,” Nick says. Harry’s got his feet up and pressed against the window, body bent ridiculously in his seat. “You’re making my bones hurt, stop being so flexible,” Nick adds. 

Harry laughs, sharp, and waggles his eyebrows. “What bone would that be?” he asks.

Nick groans. “I’m putting a mix on,” he says, and he wants to go back to dreading how long the weekend might end up being, but instead he catches Harry’s hand as it darts out to block the radio controls on the dash and, feeling optimistic — and not wanting to chance interrupting one of the best road trip mixes ever made, of course — keeps his grip tight on Harry’s hand for the next several miles.


End file.
